## Chapter 77: First Blood
The rain wasn't just falling now; it was being hurled sideways by a sudden, vicious wind. It stung Li Chang'an's cheeks, the cold water mixing with the grime of his beggar's disguise. The bounty hunter's eyes, locked onto his from twenty paces away, were two chips of flint in a weather-beaten face.
No words. Just the hiss of steel leaving a leather scabbard.
The hunter moved. He didn't charge like a bull. He flowed, his boots finding purchase in the churned mud with a practiced, gliding step. The third style I observed, Li Chang'an's mind catalogued instantly. The 'Silent River' footwork. Efficient. Low center of gravity. Prioritizes stability over explosive speed.
Li Chang'an didn't move. He let the man close the distance, his own body a statue of rags and stillness. Ten paces. Five. The hunter's sword, a narrow, cruel-looking thing, flickered out—not a thrust, but a probing cut aimed at his shoulder. A test.
[Heaven-Defying Comprehension: Activated.]
The world slowed. Not literally, but his perception fractured the movement into a thousand data points. The angle of the wrist, the slight tension in the hunter's leading shoulder, the micro-shift of his hips that telegraphed the true intent. This wasn't just a cut. It was the first note in a song of violence, designed to force a parry, to open up the neck for the second, killing stroke.
Li Chang'an exhaled.
He didn't parry. He swayed back, just an inch. The blade whispered past, slicing through rain and the frayed edge of his sleeve. The hunter's eyes widened a fraction—the expected resistance wasn't there. His body, committed to the follow-through, was momentarily over-extended.
That was all Li Chang'an needed.
His own feet moved. He didn't think; he mirrored. The 'Silent River' footwork flowed through him, but his comprehension was already dissecting it, tasting its limitations. Too rigid on the lateral shift. The weight transfer is a half-beat slow, creating a tiny dead zone on the pivot.
He stepped into that dead zone.
The hunter recoiled, sword whirling in a defensive arc. Steel sang through the downpour. Slash. Thrust. High cut. A flurry of strikes, each faster than the last, a desperate attempt to regain control. Mud splashed around them, painting their legs in dark brown.
Li Chang'an danced. He weaved, ducked, and sidestepped, his movements becoming a blurred, imperfect echo of the hunter's own style. But with each evasion, the echo grew sharper, more refined. He wasn't just copying. He was understanding. The footwork evolved in his mind, the flaws sanded away, replaced with seamless, predatory grace.
The hunter's breath became ragged, his confidence cracking. "What are you?" he grunted, a flicker of fear beneath the aggression.
Li Chang'an didn't answer. He saw the pattern. The seventh strike in the combo always had a slight over-rotation, exposing the sword wrist for a fraction of a heartbeat.
The hunter lunged, executing the sixth strike—a vicious upward riposte.
Li Chang'an was already moving. He didn't retreat. He stepped forward, inside the arc of the blade. His left hand shot up, not at the sword, but at the man's elbow, jamming the joint. A grunt of pain. The sword arm faltered.
His right hand, fingers curled into a stiff, precise spear, struck.
Thwack.
A short, sharp impact on the hunter's wrist. A sound like a green branch snapping.
The sword flew from nerveless fingers, spinning through the rain to land point-first in the mud, quivering.
The hunter stumbled back, clutching his broken wrist to his chest, face pale with shock and pain. Before he could cry out, Li Chang'an was on him. A fist to the solar plexus drove the air from his lungs in a sickening whoosh. A follow-up chop to the side of the neck dropped him to his knees, gasping like a stranded fish.
Li Chang'an stood over him, the rain plastering his hair to his scalp. He reached down, hauled the man up by his collar, and slammed him against the wet brick wall of a tannery. The stench of chemicals and rot was overwhelming.
"The bounty," Li Chang'an said, his voice low, devoid of the beggar's whine. It was just cold, flat stone. "Who issued it? What are the orders?"
The hunter spat, a mix of blood and rainwater. "Go to hell."
Li Chang'an adjusted his grip, his thumb finding a specific pressure point under the man's jaw. Agony, bright and electric, shot through the hunter's nervous system. His body convulsed, a silent scream tearing at his throat.
"I will ask once more."
"The… the Martial Alliance!" the hunter choked out, the fight draining from him. "City-wide alert! Any suspicious outsider… anyone asking about the old families or the recent… disappearances… is to be detained for questioning. Dead or alive. Heavy gold for confirmation."
"Disappearances?" Li Chang'an pressed, his thumb easing slightly.
"People! Just… vanishing from their homes! The Alliance is going mad trying to hush it up, blaming bandits, but…" He was babbling now, desperate for the pain to stop. "The higher-ups are scared. They think it's connected to… to outsiders. Like you."
It fit. The tense atmosphere, the patrols. The Martial Alliance wasn't just hunting for sport; they were trying to contain a panic, and any unknown variable was a threat.
"How many patrols in this sector?"
"Three! Ours, and two others led by… by Inner Disciples. They're stronger. Much stronger. You're dead, you hear me? They'll skin you alive—"
Li Chang'an released the pressure point and drove his forehead into the bridge of the hunter's nose. There was a wet, crunching sound. The man's eyes rolled back, and he slid down the wall into a limp heap, unconscious.
First blood.
It wasn't a kill, but the violence hung in the air, thicker than the rain. Li Chang'an looked at his own hands. They were steady. No tremor, no rush of adrenaline-fueled euphoria. Just a cold, clinical assessment. The 'Silent River' footwork has been optimized. Close-quarters disarming technique, acquired.
He turned, intending to melt back into the maze of alleys. The information was valuable. He needed to process it, to plan.
That's when the rain changed.
It wasn't the wind. The downpour itself seemed to part, to avoid two figures stepping out from the mouth of a narrow alley ahead.
They wore the same dark, practical gear as the first hunter, but the resemblance ended there. Their auras didn't just feel stronger; they pressed against the atmosphere. The rain didn't soak them; it beaded and ran off their shoulders like oil. They moved in perfect, silent unison, their eyes—calm, evaluating, utterly devoid of the first hunter's hot anger—fixed on him.
The man on the left, taller, with a scar tracing his jaw, let his gaze drift to the unconscious heap against the wall, then back to Li Chang'an. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, yet it cut through the storm like a razor.
"So," he said. "You're the variable."
The man on the right, shorter and broader, cracked his knuckles. The sound was like stones grinding together. A faint, visible heat haze began to shimmer around his clenched fists, causing the falling rain to sizzle into steam.
End of Chapter 77
Next Chapter: Inner Disciples
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